On which there followed a rattling catalogue of matrimonial failures in the artist world, amusing enough—­perhaps a little cruel.  Cuningham laughed.  Watson, on whom Lord Findon’s whole personality seemed to have an effect more irritating than agreeable, fidgeted with his brushes.  He struck in presently with the dry remark that artists were not the only persons who made imprudent marriages.

Lord Findon sprang up at once, and changed the subject.  His youngest son, the year before, had married the nurse who had pulled him through typhoid—­and was still in exile, and unforgiven.

Meanwhile no one had noticed John Fenwick.  He stood behind the other two while Lord Findon was talking—­frowning sometimes and restless—­a movement now and then in lips and body, as though he were about to speak—­yet not speaking.  It was one of those moments when a man feels a band about his tongue, woven by shyness or false shame, or social timidity.  He knows that he ought to speak; but the moment passes and he has not spoken.  And between him and the word unsaid there rises on the instant a tiny streamlet of division, which is to grow and broaden with the nights and days, till it flows, a stream of fate, not to be turned back or crossed; and all the familiar fields of life are ruined and blotted out.

Finally, as the great patron was going, Cuningham whispered a word in his ear.  Lord Findon turned to Fenwick.

‘You’re in this house, too?  Have you anything you’d let me see?’

Fenwick, flushed and stammering, begged him to walk upstairs.  Cuningham’s puzzled impression was that he gave the invitation reluctantly, but could not make up his mind not to give it.

They marched upstairs, Lord Findon and Cuningham behind.

‘Does he ever sell?’ said Lord Findon, in Cuningham’s ear, nodding towards the broad shoulders and black head of Watson just in front.

‘Not often,’ said Cuningham, after a pause.

‘How, then, does he afford himself?’ said the other, smiling.

’Oh! he has means—­just enough to keep him from starving.  He’s a dear old fellow!  He has too many ideas for this wicked world.’

Cuningham spoke with a pleasant loyalty.  Lord Findon shrugged his shoulders.

’The ideas are too lugubrious!  And this young fellow—­this Fenwick—­where did you pick him up?’

Cuningham explained.

‘A character!—­perhaps a genius?’ said Findon.  ’He has a clever, quarrelsome eye.  Unmarried?  Good Lord, I hope so, after the way I’ve been going on.’

Cuningham laughed.  ’We’ve seen no sign of a wife.  But I really know nothing about him.’

They were entering the upper room, and at sight of the large picture it contained, Lord Findon exclaimed: 

‘My goodness!—­what an ambitious thing!’

The three men gathered in front of the picture.  Fenwick lingered nervously behind them.

‘What do you call it?’ said Lord Findon, putting up his glasses.